August 31, 2011

Why I Should Not Be Allowed Out without a Minder


There are many drawbacks to shopping on line, the chief one probably being how frelling easy it is.*  However I feel that insufficient attention is paid to the dangerous shock to the computer-screen-inured constitution when some pale, wasted, indoor geek** ventures out and . . . goes to the shops.  Ooooh!  Shiny!

            Peter usually goes to the farmer’s market in Mauncester on Wednesdays but he couldn’t go today so I said I would.  It would give me the opportunity to get back to WH Smith’s and hoover up a few more sketch pads.  Oh gods drawing kit.  I am so hopeless.  I’ve been fondling the seventeen dozen different kinds and sets and introductory packs of coloured pencils and pastels and oil crayons and gods know.***  And watercolours and watercolour paper . . . I used to dabble in watercolours . . . I enjoyed dabbling in watercolours. . . . No no no no no no I do not need more KIT.  Of ANY kind. I have a SMALL HOUSE† and it’s ALREADY FULL.

            Leaving WH Smith’s, however, with no worse than three little sketchpads and another pink-polka-dot magazine box file, I saw this:

AAAAAAAUGH. Even pink won't save this one.

 NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!  For pity’s sake, doesn’t anybody check these things?!?!?  Jeezum frelling crow.  EPIC BLOODY FAIL, WH SMITH!!!!††            

At this point I clearly had to go cheer myself up.  Civilisation is breaking down, go buy something.  I need planting-up compost and more flower pots . . . I have millions of flower pots, and there’s a flower-pot avalanche every time I walk through the greenhouse, but they’re not the right size.  This is one of those laws of the universe:  the flower pots on hand are never the right size.

            So.  You see a successful raid for compost and flower pots.  Well, they didn’t actually have any of the right size. . . .


The brown paper bags are hyacinths for indoor forcing. Yes, I remembered to write each colour on each bag.

            Eventually I went to three garden centres.  I may have bought one or two more plants.

No it's not the cactus that ate Brooklyn. It's the angle. It's only about nine inches high. Including the pot.

 I gave up cacti, because they bite.  First thing this one did was bite me.  Second thing it did was bite the clerk.  Sigh.

And a nice white Christmas cactus, flowering in August. Which may be why it was half price.

 Because 1,000,000 pink Christmas cacti–the original and all its descendents–isn’t enough.  Also you can see one of those Labels That Don’t Come Off round to the left.  That’s not the pot it came in.  That sweet little flowery pot the real cactus is in is my little joke too.

            And I did eventually find some pots.  Mwa ha ha ha ha ha.

I should have bought more. Especially of the purple.

 But the, ahem, flower of my achievement . . .


Oooh! Shiny!

I have a perfectly serviceable pair of black wellies . . . which I never wear.  Because they’re so boring.  Now that I have a tiny garden I can kind of duck the wellie issue:  I wore them constantly at the old house.  There’s been a fabulous burst of coloured and patterned wellies in the last ten years or so which I keep eyeing but in the first place I can’t choose, in the second place on close examination they tend to be less for use than show and I have All Stars for that purpose . . . but hot pink Barbours.†††  And they only had like three pairs left and one of them was in my size.

            Yes, I’m feeling very much better, thank you.‡

 * * *

* Except, of course, when the site is having her period^ and, for example, having first demanded that you register if you want to buy anything, then makes you start all over and once you’ve toiled through the sixty-two introductory pages and the photos of the CEO’s dog^^ again finally says, coyly, log in please, and when, wearily, you do, promptly declares incorrect password.  I ONLY JUST REGISTERED FIVE MINUTES AGO YOU . . . MACHINE.^^^ 

^ Menopause = Permanent PMS+.  There are sites like this too. 

+ PMT.  Whatever.  When your hormones are screaming for murder and mayhem and you don’t care what the neighbours think. 

^^ Something with a really dumb haircut 

^^^  I do now use amazon because life is short and amazon is what there is.  Amazon is always what there is.  Amazon is the entire African continent of elephants+ in your living room.  Sigh.  However I still use Book Depository for choice.  But the fact that I have to re-log in every time I want to add something to my wish list does not endear them to me.  I even emailed them about this and they answered++ . . . saying, oh, your security settings are too high.  Lower them.  What?  In the first place, what do security settings have to do with being automatically logged in or not?  Amazon—and its minions, including, lately, audible—has no trouble keeping me permanently logged in, the better to bombard me with things they’re sure I need to buy immediately, when mere email nagging is not enough.  In the second place, what responsible member of our modern techno-fanged world of internet diabolism recommends someone lower their security levels?+++  Not that the Book Depository can be expected to have my best interests at heart but a customer who has had her bank account hacked into is an ex-customer. 

+ I know they are endangered.  There are still a lot of them to fit in a living room.  Also, African elephants are the cranky ones.  

++ Gosh 

+++ Furthermore note that I only do what the archangels tell me about this matter.  I would no more tinker with my computer security than neglect to bring a virgin black goat to Hecate’s All Hallows Eve party, when we sit around singing campfire songs and eating s’mores.  It wouldn’t be the same without a virgin black goat or two, eating people’s headgear and contributing interesting harmonies. 

** Which wouldn’t be me, of course.  I have hellhounds.  

*** But it would be nice to differentiate a Fast doodle from a Tsornin doodle, wouldn’t it? 

† All right, I have two small houses.  One of them with a weight bearing attic floor.  And a patient husband with a third small house . . . that happens to have my piano in it.  The principle remains.  I’m telling you the principle remains.   

†† For any confused non-English-majors out there:

You want the second to last line.  It’s like the most famous line in English literature, maybe second to some damn florid nonsense by that show-off Shakespeare.  Even chess masters and carpet-layers and Martians and WH Smith project managers ought to know ‘Beauty is truth, and truth beauty.’  GAAAAAAAAH. 

††† All I need now is the quilted gillet and the posh accent.  And the muscle car that claims to be a Land Rover but looks like a rhinoceros on steroids.  

‡ Although that may have more to do with the fact that the hellhounds have now eaten five meals in a row.


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